


deep blue (but you painted me golden)

by spacelabrathor



Series: all the kingdom lights shine just for me and you [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Loss of Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 13:16:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15171530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacelabrathor/pseuds/spacelabrathor
Summary: You'd known this day would come since you were a child and learned you were the daughter of a king. Knew you would be married off to a man in a foreign land for political gain and assurances of safety for your people. You'd prepared yourself for the eventuality that you would be given to a stranger, likely old and cruel and foul. You knew your fate would not be sweet.You never expected this. You never expected him. A man with broad shoulders and golden hair and a kind face who laughs like claps of thunder and touches you with gentle hands. You never let yourself dream of this.





	deep blue (but you painted me golden)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [captaincastle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincastle/gifts).



You had been told that Asgardians never turn down an opportunity for fanfare and revelry, so you’re surprised by this.

The hall you’re in is light and airy, with a domed, gilded ceiling and pillars in steady rows on each side of the long walkway. The sun is beginning to touch the horizon, casting the room in a honey golden hue that reflects warmly from every marbled surface. A warm breeze floats past you through the open terrace of the hall and plays with the hem of your white, silken robes. The air is thick with the smell of honeysuckle and lavender.

You swallow heavily, steel yourself, and force yourself to tear your gaze from the marbled floor before you and look up.

At the end of the hall, he is there.

He is dressed robes of red and gold and even at a distance, his size is formidable. He towers over the altar and washing bowl next to him and the priest standing behind it, broad shouldered and solemn. His hands are clasped together in front of him. He’s watching you. 

 _Thor_ , you think, forcing the name onto your brain’s tongue. _Thor_.

A lilting melody comes on the breeze from somewhere you don’t know and you step forward as if compelled. Your robes are heavy and drag behind you, whispering on the marble as you progress. Your steps are methodical as you make your way down the marbled aisle. Practiced.

You’d played this exact role a hundred times in your own head since you were a child and learned that you were the daughter of a king.

 _Honor. Duty. Country_ , you repeat in your head in time with your steps. _Honor. Duty. Country_.

 _Thor_.

The hall is long but the voice of your headmistress is rhythmic in your head - _eyes up, smile politely, step confidently, be assured, but demure_ \- as you make your way to the altar. 

You expected a spectacle. A ceremony in front of thousands. Ornate decorations and fire breathers and dancing.

Instead, there is only this. You, a priest, and him.

When you reach the altar, he turns to face you, and you to him. He holds out his hands and you place yours into his. They are warm and rough as they close around your palms.

Beside you, the priest begins to speak but you hear nothing over the thundering of your heart.

_Breathe in. Breathe out. Honor. Duty. Country. Smile. Breathe._

_Thor._

You look at him then, stealing a glance. He is watching the priest with distant eyes and it occurs to you as suddenly as a whip strike that he is a prisoner here same as you.

He is somehow everything you expected and nothing you could have imagined. Your people have many names for him. The Barbarian of Asgard. The Golden Savage. The Demon of Hammers. In the longstanding war between your peoples, Thor is a legend, respected by his own men and feared by yours. They say that his presence on the field can single handedly turn the tide of a battle. You’ve heard tale of his brutality, of his immense strength and bloodthirst. 

The man before you is hulking, yes, but he holds not an inch of malice in his body. His grip on your hands is gentle and you feel his thumb brush once against the back of your knuckles. He is still watching the priest, presumably listening, and you have a moment to hope that he will show mercy and lead you through whatever ceremony an Asgardian wedding entails, for your mind is lost. 

He is undeniably handsome, a detail left out of the tales of savagery that are whispered around campfires in the villages of your people. His face is open and strong and kind, his eyebrows drawn slightly as he watches the priest speak. His hair is gold and drawn half-back, a thick braid gathering at the nape of his neck and reaching near his shoulder blades.

His gaze turns to you then and you nearly jump. Found out. The corner of his mouth twitches in what could be fondness, and at the prompting of the priest, he says, “Yes.” His voice stuns you. Deep and heavy and honey. The air moves when he speaks.

The same question is posited to you, though if someone offered you freedom in exchange for knowing the question asked, you would have been unable to say. “Yes,” you reply, guessing, and the quick nod of the priest allows you to exhale.

The priest moves then, coming around the altar and standing opposite the washing bowl between you and him. Thor lowers your hands in the bowl and begins to wash them.

The water is perfumed and silky as he carefully rubs the pads of his fingers between your knuckles, feeling the bones shift under pressure, and over your palms. He holds your hands in his own for a moment when he’s done, cradling them, and then he waits. 

You’ve missed something. You look to the priest, who stares back at you unhelpfully, and then to Thor, a little panicky. You’re supposed to do something here. You should have listened. Your headmistresses’ voice comes to your thoughts again - _Disrespectful of ceremony! Offensive!_ \- and your heart leaps into your throat. 

But Thor’s face doesn’t harden. Doesn’t tense with irritation or resign itself with a sigh. Instead, there’s that little quirk of his mouth again, barely noticeable, and then he nods down at the bowl, not taking his eyes from yours. 

_Oh._

You turn your hands down so they’re resting palm to palm with his and reciprocate, cupping and pooling the water over his hands. You’re unsure whether this practice is ceremonial or practical so you set about to give him a thorough cleaning, relieved for his hint. He turns his wrist at your prompting and you realize with what feels like a hot coal in your stomach that one of his hands is the size of both of yours.

You clean his hands one at a time, wrapping your hand around each of his fingers of his left hand and pulling, feeling his knuckles move under your hands. You move to his other hand and span your palm against his, feeling the rough of his calluses against your the tenderness of your palms, soft from a life of privilege and blessing. You pause for a moment, cataloging the feeling - silk on steel - and suppress a shiver that creeps up your spine as you stare hard at his hand dwarfing yours in the water.

Your Father lived a life of academia and diplomacy, trusting his wars to his generals and his labor to his workers. Your brothers had occasional sparring lessons but spent most of their time in the library studying treatises. Every man you’ve touched has had hands as soft as yours. It occurs to you all at once that Thor is like no king you’ve ever known. 

You repeat the motion, fascinated, sliding your hand against his and feeling the rough ridges of his skin catch against yours -

You realize you haven’t breathed in a minute and when you suck in a breath, the air is somehow thicker. Heavier on your tongue. You grew up on lands of great plains of wheat where swirls of lightning and thunder would heat the air and fill it to the point of crackling - and you realize as you finish and release Thor’s hand that the room suddenly tastes like a _storm_. A drop of sweat gathers at your temple and releases, skimming down your jaw.

It’s hard to _breathe_.

It takes the priest clearing his throat prudently to startle you out of your reverie and like a switch, the room clears. Heavy oppressive air is replaced by the ever-present warm breeze, and you let out a breath, feeling the air catch and cool on the sweat that has gathered at your brow.

You look to the priest with an apologetic smile and then back to Thor. He holds your gaze intensely for a moment, expression unreadable, then drops it to the floor, and when he looks back, his face is softer. He returns your smile easily, disarmingly, and then holds his hands out to yours in a request.

He dries your hands with a soft cloth and then does the same to his before turning to the priest. The priest motions for him to go on, and with a little start, he remembers and takes your hand, curling it around his and bringing it to his lips.

“Min dronning” he murmurs in his native tongue against the soft skin of the back of your hand, eyes on yours. His eyes are like the midday sky.

“What?” you ask. You don’t understand. The sun is dipping below the horizon now, casting tall shadows around the hall.

His eyes close, then open again and his beard scratches as he rubs his mouth over the skin there for a moment. His lips, somehow, are petal soft.

“My queen,” he repeats.

That seems to satisfy the priest who nods in approval, tuts, and motions for them to make their way back out of the hall towards the door you first entered.

Thor moves then, taking your hand and following the priest, who is slowly, painfully, hobbling down the long hall.

You hear the distant screech of rockets and then several loud cracks that echo through the sky and bounce off the marbled floor of the room. Through the pillars and over the terrace you see a fountain of sparks and light float through the air. A swell of cheers builds from the town below and you understand. It is done.

“Are we wed?” you ask. With the sun gone down, your silken robes are chilled against your skin. Goosebumps prickle down your arms and you instinctively lean into him. He’s radiating heat.

He looks down at you and his smile is soft, distant. “We are wed,” he says. He brushes the backs of his fingers along your goose pimpled arm and lifts his arm around you, tucking you into his side, his hand settling on your lower back. You fit so easily under his arm. 

“Where do we go next?” you ask as you follow the priest out the door of the hall and into a torch-lit, open air courtyard. Thor feels like a furnace at your side and you can’t help but press into him as you walk, your arm wrapped snugly around his waist.

He huffs dryly at that, looking down at you again, light from the torches dancing on his face. “Probably the longest night of your life, unfortunately.”

Your mind immediately goes to the books you read about Asgardian culture to prepare for this day and your stomach tightens into a ball - _the consummation_ \- but he seems to sense your train of thought and runs a soothing hand down your arm.

“No, not that, min dronning,” he says, his name for you rolling sweetly and softly off his tongue. You’ve approached a huge set of ornamental double doors and you can hear a steady hum of activity on the other side. “First, we feast.” Your stomach flips and you don’t think you’ll be able to stomach a morsel but you nod.

He turns and looks seriously at you then, touching his fingertips lightly to your jaw, eyebrows drawn. “Do you need a moment?” In the flickering torchlight, he looks more like the bogeyman from your people’s stories. “Asgardians do not celebrate lightly.”

 _Honor. Duty. Country_ , your mind repeats as you look into his eyes. They’re soft and blue and sad, and you know in that moment that they’re mirroring yours. Both prisoners here, caught up in a geopolitical conflict that has engulfed both countries for the better part of a decade. Both offering themselves as tribute to the other to end the bloodshed. To save their people. _Honor. Duty. Country_.

You shake your head and tighten your arm around his waist. “I’m ready.”

Thor watches you a beat before he nods and pulls his hand from your cheek. He leans in to shoulder heavily against the door, which opens with a low creak. 

A warm rush of air hits your face and you’re overcome with the smell of burning wood and roasting meat and bubbling ale. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, and then Thor is leading you forward. 

The roar of the crowd that rises as you pass through the archway is deafening.

 

 

You’re seated at the center of a long wooden head table at the crest of the great hall. You’ve been there for hours now, watching as the setting before you was filled, cleared, and then filled again with course upon course of food. Incredible food, really, indescribable food. Roasted chicken and candied plums and scalded potatoes and oven-warm bread that tears easily in your hands. Food that makes the provisions you grew up on look like cattle feed, even as royalty.

You’ve only managed to keep down a few small bites of everything, but you’re trying. Your cheeks hurt from the polite smile that’s adorned your face since you sat down. Thor is sat next to you, his heavy thigh pressed against yours under the table. The somber man you wed at the ceremony is gone - replaced by a Thor that laughs like claps of thunder and who eats mountains of food and who greets every person who stops by the head table to offer tribute like a long lost friend, locals and dignitaries alike. 

He’s glowing, you realize, as you watch from his side as he clinks his mug of ale against that of a local blacksmith who approached to pay his respects. He had taken a minute or two to get into the swing of the merriment when you’d first sat down, still processing the ceremony, but now you suspect that he is genuinely enjoying himself. He so clearly loves his people and it makes your heart ache a little. 

You allow yourself to wonder for the first time, the smallest, most delicate flame of hope, if perhaps you have wed a good man.

The great hall is filled with rows and rows of long wooden tables, each stuffed with Asgardians, shoulder to shoulder, as they eat and drink and cheer and laugh. This is the Asgard the books spoke of. You struggle to reconcile the stories your warriors brought back - barbarians, scoundrels, savages - with the people you see before you. So full of life and love and care for their king and each other. You wonder what they say about your people as you chew on the corner of a piece of buttery bread that melts against your lips.

Thor’s hand is warm and heavy when it lands softly on your knee where the robes have parted, curling his fingers a little the curve of it. He looks over to you, then down to your full plate. He frowns and leans in. 

“Is the food to your liking, min dronning?” he asks, lips brushing against your cheek so you can hear him under the din of celebration.

You nod and make an unhappy swirly hand gesture around your stomach. He nods knowingly. “Let me know if there’s anything that you’d like.”

You lean into him, his whiskers scratching your cheek. “I think I’m going to just eat my weight in bread.” You wave the piece of baked, buttery pastry you’ve been eating around a little.

You weren’t trying to be funny but he laughs anyway, pulling back and giving you an odd look. One, you think, that’s not far from fondness.

He leans in again, to speak in your ear again, you think, but instead his fingers bridge gently under your chin and his lips press softly to the swell of your cheekbone.

He’s gone before you can even react, leaning back and engaging with a man and woman who have approached the table, but you cheek burns like a brand where his beard scuffed the skin, and you bring fingers up to touch at the warm sting there. 

You don’t see him speak to any servers, but a platter of warm, buttery breads appears at your place setting a few minutes later and your stomach rumbles, in spite of itself.

 

 

Thor ends up dragging you from the great hall an hour later, holding you behind him as he slowly makes his way towards the doors, calling out gratitudes and apologies and farewells to the swell of Asgardians who appear to have no intention of slowing down. 

You’re surprised at how weak your knees are when the door finally shuts behind you, exhaustion from a long day settling in like a load of bricks. He’d had an arm around you and he scoops you up easily, and you let your head rest against his chest for a moment. Just to rest. Just for a moment. He stands there quietly, nose pressed against your hair as you take some deep breaths in the softness of his robes, letting you get your feet back under you.

A few beats pass and you jerk awake in his arms. You fear you’ve nodded off. You stand quickly and he lets you, still touching the back of your elbow with a cautious hand.

Your headmistress’ voice is ringing in your head - _do not insult the king, you must always be prepared to serve him, you must make him the center of your world_ \- but Thor doesn’t look angry. If anything, he looks a little worried.

“Sorry,” you say, nervously tucking a hair that’s come loose from its bindings behind your ear. 

He drops his hand from your arm once he sees you’re steady on your feet. “No need, min dronning,” he says, your title coming out of his mouth a rumbly purr. He’s tired too. “It’s been a very long day.” 

You both pause then. You know you shouldn’t but you can’t stop your gaze from falling to the floor.

It’s late. There is nothing left to do in the day except retire to bed. But Asgardian custom demands that a marriage be consummated under the first moon that rises, and you know from your study that it is non-negotiable. Even if Thor wanted to spare you...

You’re steeling your courage, trying to muster up some steamy assurance that you want to take your new husband to bed as a new wife should, when Thor says easily, “Let’s take a walk.”

He leads you down spiraling stone walkways with a hand on your lower back. You’re hopelessly turned around within a minute but he turns this way and that with the ease of someone who knows the path like the back of his hand. It occurs to you then, stupidly, that he likely roamed these same halls when he was a boy. 

He stops at an stone balcony, elevated high in the fortress Thor calls home. The rounded pavilion is surrounded by pillars and ivy and plush cushions and seating are scattered throughout. Over the ivory railing, all of Asgard stretches out, gleaming white and gold in reflected moonlight. 

You lean against the railing, happy to have something to hold onto. You look out over your new home and try to stifle the ache of change. Everything is here is sharp mountains and peaks and architecture. The flat, ever-rolling plains of your home are gone. This is your home now.

Thor collapses onto a plush settee nearby with a sigh. You look over and see him, loose limbed and sprawling, resting his head back and looking up at the night sky. It suddenly seems unbearable to be standing, so you sit beside him, allowing yourself to tip and lean against his slouched upper half. His arms open wordlessly and you slot against his side like you’ve done it a thousand times.

You lay there for a while, counting your breaths and feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart under your ear. _This was right_ , you think to yourself. _This is okay._ If all it took to save the lives of thousands of your people was to give your life to this man, it was, by all accounts, a bargain. _Honor. Duty. Country_. You’d do it for your people again and again if you had to. 

You’re close to drifting off when his chest rumbles. “Your strength is incredible,” he says softly, almost like he’s saying it to himself. 

That wakes you. You sit up, pushing off of his chest, and he sits up to follow you.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

You’re sat cross legged now, facing him. Even with his tired shoulders, he dwarfs you this close. A mountain of a man. The moon cuts across his face as he watches you intently. Maybe he’s more awake than you realized. He reaches out a hand and touches the crease of your hip absentmindedly, fingers raking against the folds where your robe is secured. Maybe you’re more awake than you realized, too. 

He says, “When I woke this morning, I thought only of myself. Of this union and of our fathers and what this all meant. For me.” He pauses, sighs. “Yet very little of my life changed today. The only difference in my life now from yesterday is that I am now married to a beautiful woman.”

You’d blush but he says it not for flattery, but as truth. He continues, “You...traveled thousands of miles. You left everything you’ve ever known. Everyone. You’ve shown courage in a situation that would bring men to their knees.” He looks down at his lap before looking up to meet your eyes. “I know why you agreed to this arrangement. Likely for the same reasons I did. A love for your people. I just…” he stops and rubs a hand over his beard before dropping it back to his lap. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this is where your life led you.”

You choose to look over his shoulder at the vast expanse of velvety stars blanketing Asgard because there are tears in your eyes that you desperately want to keep from falling. _A king has no use for a weeping bride_ you hear your headmistress say.

Your mind drifts to your older sister who was married off when you had only begun to flower. She had moved to a far away island surrounded by cold rain and crashing, salty seas, and into the arms of an old, wretched man who controlled the only port your people could access for purposes of trade. She had left you with a kiss on the cheek, her head held high as her father handed her to the scaly man who demanded payment in the form of virgin flesh for use of his port. She had done it for her people, and as she left she’d whispered in your ear that she would do it again. You’d known from that day that your ultimate fate would be no sweeter. 

Except…

Thor is inches from you, watching your face with with rapt intensity. You allow yourself to meet his eyes, to look back at him. To really look. He holds your gaze steadily, bringing up a thumb to brush away a tear that slides down your cheek.

He’s nothing that you expected. All of the nights spent alone after your sister left, you’d never let yourself even dream of the notion of being given to a man like this. You expected to be married to an old man, knock kneed and graying and greasy, who told you that you looked just like his daughter as he fucked you. You expected to be married to brash king with a violent temper who expected subservience from his wife and nothing but. You expected to be married to a man who would hardly clear the chapel doors after the ceremony before bending you over the nearest surface and claiming you.

Yet, here you are. Sitting across from the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen, knees brushing on the settee. You’ve been wed for hours but have had no fear of him. He has shown you kindness and empathy and comfort when lesser men wouldn’t have been able to keep their hands from between your legs.

Even now, when the moon is high, he waits for you, palm resting easily on your knee, running his thumb back and forth there. You are overcome with the sudden, overwhelming desire to thank him for being so much more than the world requires of him - so you do.

You lean in and press your lips to his, bracing a hand on his chest and feeling the strong heartbeat there. He goes very still for a moment, one long, silent beat of time, before you feel his eyelashes brush against your cheek as his eyes close and then he’s kissing you back.

You’re very aware in that moment that the most you’ve kissed is the cook’s son behind the kitchen when you were thirteen, but Thor kisses like you’re a revelation - slow and sure and steady. His lips are soft and warm against yours and when his fingers press gently at the hinge of your jaw, your lips part with a soft sigh. The scape of his beard on your face sends chills down to your toes.

Thor pulls you into him and you move to perch on his lap, trying desperately to stay in your own head as he breaks from your mouth to place soft kisses along your jawline. Your hand comes to touch the back of his neck, tangling in the hair there, rooted. Keeping him close. You look out over Asgard distantly, eyes unfocused, breathing too loudly in the quiet night air as he finds a pulse point under your jaw and starts to suck. 

His hands have settled on your hips and the span of them is enough to dizzy you. You’re focused on the warm pressure of his fingers as they rub over the robes over your ass, barely caressing the curve there, when you get one, two hot breaths as a warning before his mouth closes around your earlobe. The set of his teeth on the skin there makes you gasp, breathy and _too loud_ , and your thighs part unconsciously. Thor tugs on your earlobe, breath and beard scratch heating your cheek and you realize you’re panting, full on, open mouthed panting as he bites at you.

You wonder if this is what the soul leaving the body feels like when suddenly Thor is pulling back and looking up at the sky. You follow suit, looking up, and see that the blanket of stars from a moment ago is obscured by thick, rolling cloud cover. As if on cue, a raindrop hits your face, then two. You wipe them away, feeling that your skin has gone slick with sweat.

“Is this you?” you ask and Thor laughs, cupping your cheek with affection.

“No,” he says, voice light with humor. He sounds _happy_. “Not this time, at least.”

He’s looking at you so sweetly that you can’t stop yourself from kissing him again. You can feel him smiling against your lips as they part under yours and the taste of his tongue as it teases into your mouth makes you sigh into him. “What’s a little rain?” You’re breathless as Thor kisses you again and again, pulling in and teasing your mouth open with a touch of his tongue, then pulling back.

The clouds choose that moment to open and make you a fool. The rain changes from a pitter patter to a downpour in seconds and you squeal, unable to help yourself. The rain is _cold_.

Thor is laughing then, again, and he pulls you in for an open mouthed kiss, holding your jaw and pulling you close as the rain pelts down and soaks you.

You’d honestly stay like this, exchanging sweet, slick kisses in the downpour, but Thor gets to his feet reluctantly, planting one last chaste kiss to your lips as he pulls you up.

He takes you by the hand and you race breathlessly beside him inside.

 

 

Thor’s chambers are expansive and plush, full of golds and reds and grays. Torches in every corner cast a soft golden hue over the stone room. Every surface is soft furs and buttery leather and the walls are lined with books and artifacts. The air is warm but your robes are soaked and clinging to every inch of you. You can’t help but shiver under the weight of the cold, heavy fabric, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself. Your gaze settles on the large bed in the center of the room, unmade and messy and used, and you feel a curl of heat low in your belly at the thought of Thor stretched out on it.

Thor moves ahead of you, stripping out of his wet robes like it’s habit. He belongs here, you realize. The room smells like him, _feels_ like him. You can sense him in every inch of this place. 

He’s shucked his robes without a thought, peeling the sopping fabric from his skin and tossing it to the floor, leaving him only in a thin pair of breeches. He turns and sees you frozen by the door and his face falls. A solemn look passes over his face and he holds out his hands, as if to say he means no harm. 

You realize that he thinks you’re afraid. You’re frozen, yes, but it’s not fear that has you rooted to the floor.

He’s just….awesome. Inspiring of awe. His ceremonial robes had been cinched around his waist but you had no idea…

He approaches you slowly. Respectfully. Like you might start and flee at the first wrong movement. He holds out a hand, palm up, as he gets close and you give him yours numbly. You can’t take your eyes off of him 

His body is impossibly thick, corded with heavy ropes of muscle and flesh. His skin is soft and tanned from the sun and smooth. He could crush you, you realize, without an effort. He could absolutely crush the life out of you if he so chose. You clench your thighs together under your robes, muscles twitching, embarrassed.

You reach out and touch his chest with your fingertips as he comes to stand before you. You wet your lips unconsciously as you let your hand trail down, moving over the ridges of his abdominal muscles. You look up then, fingers grazing the trail of hair that starts at his navel, lips parted and shamefully breathless. You’ve never seen a man like him before. You’ve never touched a man like him.

The shift on Thor’s face is nearly imperceptible but it reads to you like a thunder crack. He watches you for a moment, paused in confusion. Then, after a beat, his furrowed brow smooths and the corner of his mouth twitches, just so. His eyes grow heavy and dark.

He’s pleased.

 _He knows_.

Color floods your face and you drop your gaze again to his chest. You move your hand to trace the strength of his shoulder and pectoral muscle, wishing the floor would open and swallow you whole. You can’t bear to look at his face and instead focus on breathing in and out as you trace the contours of his chest with the edge of a fingernail.

He lets you. He stands an scant inch from you, body towering and skin damp from the rain, and he lets you touch him. You span both of your palms across his lower stomach where the skin is taut and dusted with hair and you can feel yourself sway unconsciously into him. You hear his breathing, just a soft, strained gust, just above your ear, and you desperately clench your thighs together again.

He’s waiting on you to act but you’re not sure you can. You’re stuck in a loop, your fingers tracing every inch of him, not sure where this goes and petrified to take the next step. Your knees feel a little weak and your robes are still heavy and cold on your skin and you look up at his face desperately. 

You need him. You need him here. You can’t do this alone. 

He understands. His knees bend and then his arm is coming around the curve of your ass and he’s scooping you up easily, like you weigh no more than a pebble. You squeak, throwing your arms around his neck to keep from going over his shoulder. 

He carries you to broad lounge near the bed and sits, balancing you as he does, and you end up sat in his lap, knees on either sides of his thighs. You re-adjust yourself, bracing on his chest and shifting your weight to get more comfortable. You’re above him like this, you realize, and for the first time since you met him, you have to look down to meet his eyes. 

The change in atmosphere is palpable and you take a moment to catalogue it, sucking in a breath when Thor’s hands come to rest on your thighs, pushing at the fabric of your gowns until his fingers touch bare skin. Thor is watching you, patient as ever, but there is a heat in his gaze that you feel low and hot in your belly.

You don’t feel small here, you realize...you feel powerful. It occurs to you all at once that Thor _wants you_. _Desires you_. It's enough to make your head spin. A calm settles over you, then, and you have to fight the urge to laugh in disbelief that _this_ man wants _you_.

This man. Your husband.

You place your hands on his cheeks and press a chaste kiss to his lips. “Min kung,” you murmur in your native tongue as you kiss him again.

Thor’s eyes grow a shade darker. “What did you say?” he asks, voice a rasp, though you know he knows.

“My king,” you whisper against his lips.

Thor’s eyes squeeze shut as if he’s in pain. His hands shove from your legs up to your hips and he grips, tight, pulling you forward. Your thighs part over the bulk of his and when he grips you deep onto his lap, you can feel him. _There_.

You whine, unable to help yourself, and press your forehead against his as the swell of his clothed erection presses against your undergarments, snug against the heat and want there. His hands grip your hips again, tugging you down hard and you go with him, rocking your hips, and you both moan as your bodies roll together.

His obvious desire emboldens you. You haven’t had a drink all night but you feel tispy, light headed and glowing, from the feel of it. You lean back in Thor’s embrace, wanting to remember this. The sweat on Thor’s brow and heat in his eyes. His lust. _For you_.

Thor’s eyes drop from your face then, settling on your chest, and you realize, blisteringly, that the rain has wetted your robes entirely. The pink of your nipples, chilled and peaked, shows through the sheer white fabric. Thor swallows and licks his lips, eyes fixed. You breathe in, then out, and then you reach up to your shoulders and pull the robes down. 

Thor’s eyes don’t waver but his hands tighten painfully on your hips. You breathe again, in and out, fighting the blush that’s coloring your cheeks.

_You want this. He wants this._

You take one of his hands from your hip and place it on your belly, his fingers flexing when they touch the heat of your skin. You tug his hand up and that’s all the permission he needs.

His hand slides up your front, molding over your breast and squeezing, a little rough. His mouth is on the other before you can think, and you stifle a cry as his hot mouth closes around your nipple and sucks. Your hand flies to the back of his head, tangling in the sweat damp hair at the nape and you hold his head to you as he laps at your breast and pants against your skin. He comes up for breath, scraping his beard against the thin skin of your sternum hard, with intent to burn, before he bites the side of your breast softly, following with kitten licks, and then he’s found your nipple again, sucking and tugging between his teeth.

The slick sound of mouth on skin is obscene in the quiet of the room and you realize you’re panting, open mouthed and lewd. The heat between your thighs is unbearable and you press a hand low between your legs, desperate to release the pressure. Thor’s hand closes over yours quickly and pulls your hand back, growling against your neck as he stands suddenly, effortlessly supporting you as he walks one, two, three steps towards the bed and dumps you down onto it. 

You collapse onto the bed without grace, immediately overwhelmed by the cloud of scent that puffs up from the blankets around you. The smell is of Thor, of his sweat and musk and his sex, and the thought of Thor pleasuring himself right here, right on these blankets, fisting his cock until he comes, makes you groan, shameful and loud as Thor moves himself between your parted legs.

Thor kneels on the bed between your thighs, audibly breathing. Your eyes settle on his cock, hard and obvious in his breeches as he moves into you, and the space between your legs throbs. His hands go to the ties around your waist and in a moment, he’s tugging the damp fabric and tossing it aside. Goosebumps prick across your skin as the cool fabric slides over and off of you and you beckon for him.

Thor crawls down next to you on his side, his body curling half over yours, blissfully warm. He tugs you close and his leg drifts between yours, spreading your thighs. Exposing you. His cock is hot and heavy where it rests against your hip and the feeling makes you want to buck up into it.

Thor kisses your breast, then the other, and murmurs, “Du er så vakker, min dronning. You are so beautiful.”

You turn to kiss him but his hand reaches down and presses hard against your sex and the air is punched out of you. Thor breathes hotly against your neck, beard scraping the juncture of your shoulder as he rubs the silk of your undergarment with firm, sure strokes. Your undergarment is _soaked_ , sounding slick under his fingers, and you want to cry, back arching in a silent sob.

“ _Thor_ ,” you beg. Something is building in your belly, iron hot and tense and foreign and fast. “ _Thor._ ”

His fingers drift up and press firm against the ridge of your sex, swirling there, and your hips are bucking against his hand, a stream of nonsense falling from your lips. His leg thrown across yours holds you in place as you struggle against him, writhing and gasping.

You’d touched yourself as a child, around the time when you came of age, but never felt this. Never anything close.

Something is - something is building - you can feel the pressure in your sex grow hotter and hotter - and Thor slips his fingers under your garment. His finger slick against you, hard and fast and rough, and the drag of his calluses against your heat makes sparks explode behind your eyes. 

Your mouth opens on a silent cry, back arching painfully as he works you through it, fingers quickening and then softening as you come down.

You can’t breathe, your hands tangled up in the blanket beneath you. Sweat pricks under your arms, at the backs of your knees, sticky and hot. Your thighs tremble like you’ve been shocked and your sex throbs against the soft, gentle pressure of his palm.

There are tears in your eyes, spilling over and trailing down your face. He kisses one teared cheek gently, then the other. Your chest is heaving as you gasp in and out and the room fades back into view as your brain starts to come back to you.

You realize that Thor is kissing your shoulder, his hand still pressed reassuring against your sex as the final pulses die out. You take a moment and count your breaths, hips still twitching every other beat. _Is that- ? Was that -?_

You turn to look at Thor, gobsmacked. You’d heard stories about relations between a husband and his wife, mostly whispered by kitchen maids and stable boys just out of earshot. It had always been described as a quick, utilitarian deed done in silence and in the dark. An obligation of marriage, more than anything else. You spent years mentally preparing yourself for a short, painful consummation to a man you despised just moments after the conclusion of the ceremony.

This...you had no idea. You never knew it could be like this.

Thor’s breathing is labored as he watches you. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, ruddy and hot. You feel something bump against your thigh and when you look down, Thor is grasping his cock through his breeches, squeezing and releasing and squeezing.

Your fingers find his arm and his hand stills. His eyes are heavy on yours and you can’t look him in the face when you stroke the inside of his wrist and say quietly, “I - I want to see.”

Breath rushes out of Thor in a groan and his forehead drops to your shoulder as he grips himself hard before lifting his hips and pushing his breeches down. His cock bobs free, wetly smearing against your thigh, and it feels _hot_ , like a brand.

His hand falls immediately back to it, fisting it, and you can’t tear your eyes away. His fingers barely wrap around the girth of it, flexing and squeezing as he works the length against his palm in a practiced stroke.

He’s watching you stare, eyes heavy, breath low in his chest. You look up and meet his eyes, feeling your cheeks burning. Your mouth has filled with spit, you realize, and you swallow heavily.

“I don’t -,” you say, eyes darting down and then back to his face. “I don’t think you’ll fit -,”

You say it not for flattery but Thor makes a sound like you’ve strangled him and his hand blurs on his cock, jerking roughly on the length, swirling his palm around the head and then down again. You can’t look away, watching the slip of skin in hand, seeing the head appear and disappear into Thor’s palm with each stroke. The sound is slick and sloppy and lewd and you bite your lip and resist the urge to put your hand between your legs. 

Thor is making soft sounds, quiet little grunts in time with his strokes, and you realize he will come like this.

Determined, you raise up onto your elbow and reach for him. His hand stills slowly, his forehead creasing a little as he watches your face, then your hand. You touch at his cock with soft fingers, unsure and inexperienced. The strength of it surprises you, the firmness, and you understand now how he could stand to be so rough with himself. The skin is hot and smooth as you trail your fingers down the length, testing, feeling.

Thor watches you, mouth parted open, breathing in hot puffs.

You scoot close to him on the bed and press a distracted kiss to the skin of his shoulder before wrapping your hand around the length like you saw him do. Thor’s groan is shaky and quiet and pressed against your cheek and you flex your wrist, gliding your hand down the length of him. His hips jerk into your hand, like a reflex, and his teeth set against your jaw, biting down lightly, panting.

You try to remember his movements and replicate them, working his cock in your palm. Your fingers don’t even touch around it and the knowledge makes your stomach pool hot and your thighs clench. The thought of Thor pressing into you - working his way inside of you with _this_ \- is unbearable and overwhelming and breathtaking. 

You focus on the slick pull of skin, the way his cock moves through your closed fist, pushing, making room. You imagine him moving in you this way - how it will feel to have him lay claim to you where no man has ever touched. You moan softly, his name falling from your lips, enraptured by the thought. 

You realize you’ve drifted off in thought when Thor closes his fist around yours. He’s apologizing to you then in a strained voice and you know not what for but then he’s climbing over you, throwing a thigh over your waist, and then his body is over yours and he’s kissing you hard as his hand grips around yours and he bucks his hips into both of your hands.

Over you like this, he is a mountain. His weight is on his knees between your thighs and on his elbow by your head and he’s using your fist to pull himself off, his hips pumping rhythmically against your hand.   _Fucking it_ , you realize, and your head drops back to the bed with a moan. Your legs spread unconsciously, sex clenching down on nothing, craving, desperate as he fucks the tight circle of your fist with rough snaps of his hips. 

You’re dizzy with arousal, lightheaded and needy. “I - I want - ,” you say, voice catching in your throat. “I want you -,” and you are overwhelmed with the need to push him down, to guide him to your entrance, to feel his cock thrust inside of you when Thor groans through gritted teeth against your neck and pins you down with all of his weight.

His face screws up, eyebrows drawn hard on his face, pained, as his hips snap against you, once, twice, three times, and then he’s moaning in relief and you feel his cock jump in your hand.

Hot cum splatters on your chest, painting your breasts and neck, speckling up on your chin, motlen and heavy.

Thor stills after a moment, his chest heaving, head pressed into the crook of your shoulder. The air echoes with the sounds of your breathing and his as he perches over you, abdominal muscles trembling. His hand drops from where it had covered yours but you marvel at the feel of him in your hand, softening already. Heavy and spent. You squeeze gently and watch as you milk a fat drop of cum from the head and Thor is groaning and laughing breathlessly into your skin, hips lazily pumping at your hand once more.

He kisses you then, soft and open mouthed, tongue slipping against yours, and you open to him out of instinct. Your legs spread again as he tastes you and your hand releases his spent cock to clutch at the strength of his shoulder. 

When he pulls back to look at you, the grin on his face is _stupid_ , private and warm and fond. He collapses on the bed next to you and you allow yourself to fall back too, head pillowing on his outstretched arm. You turn on your side to face him, foot shyly brushing the coarse hair on the curve of his calf. 

You’re not sure why Thor is laughing but he is, soft rumbly, pleased chuckles deep in his chest around the deep breaths he’s taking. Just... _happy_. He’s beaming when he turns on his side to face you and it makes your heart swell in your chest. Makes it hard to breathe.

He kisses you again, leaning over and pressing his lips to yours. Your fingers come up and touch his jaw, scratch and the rough beard there, and your mouth opens under his, shivering at the feel of his tongue against yours. You feel your belly flop and cannot believe that you are ready to go again, but the heat you feel in your gut is unmistakable.

Thor presses a firm kiss to your jaw, then two. He’s radiating heat and energy and contentment as he brings your fingers up to his lips to kiss them, soft and gentle.

You feel something on your face and touch at it reflexively, finger coming away with a drop of his cum. You study it for a moment, watch it catch the light, before you suck your finger into your mouth to taste.

Thor groans next to you as you suck your finger clean - the taste is a little sharp but not altogether unpleasant, you decide. Your mouth flushes with spit at the taste and you suddenly ache with the urge to taste his cock. To know what it would feel like against your lips.

You feel his hands on you and you realize that Thor is thumbing at the cum splatters on your breasts, rubbing it into your skin. His eyes are darker than they were a moment ago but his lips quirk up as your nipple pebbles up under his touch.

“The Gods sent you to kill me, min dronning,” he murmurs, mesmerized as he rubs his cum into your skin. Marking you. Claiming you. “I’m sure of it.” He presses another chaste kiss to your lips before rolling away from you and standing from the bed.

You lay back and stretch, your arms falling above your head and letting your eyes drink in the sight of him as he makes his way across his chambers. He is a sight to behold in the warm torchlight - a tall expanse of skin and muscle and strength.

He returns to the bed with a two goblets, swishing full of liquid, the bed dipping as he sits beside you.

The water is cool on your tongue and you realize that you’re parched. You drink down the whole cup with no effort, licking your lips as you hand the cup back to him, satisfied. Thor drinks his more slowly, seeming to savor the experience, and when he finishes, he stands to return the goblets from the table he retrieved them from.

You sit up a little straighter and exhale then, the cool crisp of the water sparking your mind and clearing your head like a breath of fresh mountain air. Any vestiges of fatigue fade and the ache between your legs comes into sharp focus.

Recognition of the feeling as arousal is new to you still and you take a moment to let yourself feel it. The sore peak of your nipples, the coil of tension in your belly. The flood of slick between your legs. You roll the feeling over in your head, letting your eyes roam Thor’s body greedily as he returns to the bed.

You’re allowed this, you realize. He is your king. Your husband. You are allowed to desire him. You _should_ desire him. And you do.

Thor sits beside you on the bed again, a warm palm resting openly on the side of your knee and the other hand cupping the back of your head. He pulls you into him and presses a kiss to your forehead, absolutely radiating affection. You wonder as your eyes close at the kiss how its possible for you to feel so much _love_ from a man you’ve only just met. 

“Am I dreaming?” you murmur to yourself, wondering, and Thor pulls back. Your eyes open and he’s giving you a curious look, head cocked a little. His hand cups the side of your face. 

“You are here,” he says, voice soft. He can’t read you, you realize.

You smile warmly and kiss his palm. “I pray that I am,” you say. “I’m afraid I could wake up at any moment and find this was all a dream.” 

He understands then, and kisses you firmly, his hand curling loosely around your neck. “You are here,” he says with finality, pressing his forehead to yours, holding you there.

“You are mine,” you say softly. Unbelieving.

Thor kisses you again. “I am yours,” he agrees, voice a deep rumble, eyes closed. 

You touch at his jaw, unable to help yourself. “Am I yours?” you ask.

His eyes open at that. Dark and hot. “You are mine.”

You bite your lip then, holding your breath. Feeling brazen under his gaze. “Show me.”

He’s happy to oblige. Thor growls low in his throat as he shoves you back and you let yourself fall back onto the bedding, legs opening easily with a sigh as Thor fits himself between them and looms over you. You already feel like he belongs here - like he’s carved out a space for himself between your legs that is his and his alone. He settles against you so effortlessly.

Thor’s mouth is hot on yours, wet and open, the warm skin of his chest sliding against yours and peaking up your nipples. You rock together unconsciously, bodies moving in sync against each other.

“You are _mine_ ,” Thor breathes against your jaw, setting his teeth there and biting. Your head falls back, lips parting on a soft groan. That will bruise, you’re sure of it, and the thought feels like electricity down your spine. 

Thor’s hand trails down your body, feather light, working up goosebumps in its wake as it travels down your front and strokes your lower belly. Your hips bunch at that, desperate, and you resist the urge to shove his hand lower as he touches at the soft edges of your undergarment.

He teases you there for a moment, fingers playing on the soft skin below your belly button, and it’s not until you whimper, “ _Please_ ,” that his hand drops down between your legs.

His fingers slide smoothly under your undergarment, curling against your sex and stroking.

“ _Gods_ min dronning,” he groans as his fingers slip through fresh slick. He watches your face earnestly as he touches you there, fingers sure as they curl against your soft folds. You keep your face open for him, letting your eyes grow heavy, face warm, letting him drink in the look on your face as you pant at the touch of his hand. He wants to see this, and you want him to see.

His thumb swirls around the crest of your sex, a firm touch, and you’re gasping, hips stuttering against his hand. He repeats the motion, thumb pressing firmly, and your eyes unfocus as a soft “ _oh_ ” escapes your lips. You need more, you realize, and you move your hips against his hand desperately.

But Thor is moving away from you, moving down your body, and you resist the reflexive urge to grab him and keep him with you. As if you even could.

He kisses your belly as he moves down you, fingers still working against you as he leans under one of your crooked knees and moves between your legs.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He pulls your undergarment off slowly, carefully guiding your left leg through, then your right. He pauses halfway to kiss the inside of your knee and his beard scratches the hot skin there. The undergarment gets discarded somewhere behind him and you have to fight hard against the urge to cover yourself with your hands.

You’re bare to him like this, spread open and exposed and soaking and he kisses your inner thigh reverently before fitting his hands around your hips and pulling you down the bed towards him.

“W-what are you -,” you gasp at the sensation of a hot gust of breath against your sex, and then his mouth is on you. 

The noise that comes out of you is strangled and hoarse, your head snapping back against the bed, back arching as his presses his mouth to your sex and laps. His strong hands on your hips are the only thing keeping you on the bed as he kisses you there, mouth soft and plush and wet.

It takes a moment to come back to yourself and you realize after a minute that you’ve stopped breathing. You suck in a hot, deep breath and close your eyes, not able to bear the thought of looking down and seeing what you’re feeling. 

His mouth feels indescribable as it moves against you. The soft of his lips and tongue is velvet against your sex, lapping and kissing and sucking. The occasional scrape of his beard against the sensitive skin there makes you keen, throw your arm over your face desperately. You force yourself to count your breaths in and out to stave off the light headedness and spots in your vision. 

 _In. Out. In. Out. Breathe. Focus on what you feel._  

You force your legs to relax from where you had clamped them around Thor’s shoulders, letting your knees fall down to the bed on either side of him. 

_In. Out._

Thor’s mouth is still there, gently sucking at the crest of your sex, the sensitive bundle of nerves there, laving at it with his tongue.

  _In. Out._

You feel what must be one of Thor’s fingers stroking you, feeling down through your folds and then back up through the slick. It would be comforting if it wasn’t making you clench down on nothing, desperately empty.

  _In. Out._

 Sliding back up, Thor’s finger gently catches on you, and you feel him there, teasing your entrance with feather-like strikes of his finger tip. He dips his finger in, just teasing to the first knuckle and you moan, hips jerking against his hand. You need _more_. 

_In. Out._

He’s teasing you still, gently fucking you with the very tip of his finger, pressing down on the base of your entrance each time he withdraws. Tears are starting to prick at your eyes and your hips are starting to hitch against him beyond your control. 

“Thor,” you cry, “ _Please_.” 

The glide of his finger into you takes your breath away. The digit is thick and he wastes no time, stroking you inside and out, finger tip dragging along you as he withdraws and enters again. 

You are panting loudly now, arm still thrown over your eyes, your chest heaving in time with your breaths.

_In. Out._

A second finger slides in so easily and you bear down with a soft cry as you’re filled with each thrust of his hand. The crook of his knuckles massages your walls, touches places you didn’t know existed.

 His mouth is ever present, stopping for a moment to catch his breath, before nosing at your sex like he’s dying for it and lapping his tongue there.

_In. Out._

You feel a third finger slide into you and you groan into the crook of your elbow.

You had been told this would hurt. You had spent your entire life being told that sex was a brief, painful, necessary deed. You had mentally prepared for the worst.

But your body is opening under his hands, easy and pliant and willing and slick. You feel nothing but delicious pressure and the caressing of his knuckles and bones as he fucks his fingers into you again and again and again. 

Your body was made for this. For him.

_In. Out._

You can feel a steady thrum of heat building in your belly, pulsing in time with the thrusts of his hand. His mouth on you and fingers in you work in a steady, coordinated beat, making your hips twitch helplessly against his face. Tingles are starting to spread into your thighs, up into your chest and your arms, and you know, now, what is coming. What sweet relief is building inside of you from his kiss on your cunt.

Sloppy, wet sounds fill the air and the feeling inside of you is starting to crest when you desperately reach down, fingers tangling in his hair. “Thor,” you say breathlessly, tugging a little.

He looks up at that, mouth pulling away, cheek pressed to the inner crease of your thigh. Face flushed, mouth shiny with your slick. Eyes molten. 

“Min dronning?” he asks. You watch his hips bunch against the bed below you, like he can’t help it. Like he’s hard again and ready for you.

“I’m about to - ,” you say, flush coloring your cheeks. “About to -.” You can’t finish the sentence, making a hand gesture that you hope communicates your meaning. _I’m about to come_ is on the tip of your tongue but you can’t force it out.

Thor’s expression swirls, a brief flicker of confusion before a fond, exasperated smile takes its place. He leans forward and swipes a soft stripe up your sex with his tongue, making you squirm between his hands. “Yes,” he says, like you’re missing something obvious. “I want you to come, min dronning.”

You shake your head, willing the right words to form, but your brain is overstimulated, synapses firing wildly, and you grit out a soft, frustrated groan.

“What is it, my love?” Thor asks, softer this time, pressing another kiss to your inner thigh. The rumble of the new endearment makes your heart beat hard against your rib cage.

You take a moment and gather your courage. You’d done much more trying things that day - marrying a strange man in a strange land, giving away your entire life - than articulate your desires. This was nothing. Between your legs, Thor watches you with rapt attention. 

“I want -,” you say, fingers carding in his hair, “I want to c-come.” Thor’s eyes fall closed at that, as if in pain, but your hand in his hair stops him from leaning into you. “I want to c-come on you.” His eyes open then, a flash of blue. “I want to come with you i-inside of me.” 

A breath rushes out of Thor’s nose and his soft lips on your inner thigh are replaced by teeth, biting hard enough to make you jolt, squirm away. His mouth follows you, biting again, bruising the skin beneath his teeth, and your tug hard at his hair to pull his mouth away, whining. His eyes look feral when they meet yours. 

Thor crawls up your body wordlessly and you catch just a glimpse of his swinging cock, hard, impressive, before he settles easily between your legs. You’re again hit with the feeling like he belongs here somehow, like his place between your thighs was predetermined, long before either of you had been born to this universe. Your palms cup his cheek as he leans down to kiss you, feeling adrift between feelings of heady arousal and crushing affection for this man.

He’s panting against your mouth as one of his hands takes your thigh and pulls it towards your chest, and then you feel the soft press of his cock against your folds.

“ _Ohh_ ,” you whisper, eyes rolling back. 

He rubs himself there, pushing up and down against the slick of your core, until the you feel the blunted pressure as it snags on your entrance. Thor groans softly and then he’s moving, pushing, breaching that tight ring of flesh and muscle.

It’s more pressure than pain but your mouth drops open in a silent cry, head pushed back against the bed, as your body gives and gives and gives to the sure press of him. A few moments of unbearable heat and strain and then he’s fully rooted in you, hair at the base of his cock pressed against the underside of your thighs.

You’re seeing white, consumed by the impossible fill of him, throat working on no air, fingers clenching in the bedding. The feel of his fingers in you was nothing to this, to the stretch and pressure of his cock. He has filled every inch of you, fitting in you like the stopper of a wine cask. You feel like you might burst.

You distantly feel his lips on your cheek and his voice slowly rings through the white-out in your mind.

“- please, min dronning,” he’s saying, desperately, “Breathe. Breathe for me. Please -," 

As if he willed it, you gasp in a harsh, rattling breath, and he says, “Yes, yes,” his thumb sweeping across the swell of your cheekbone. Your chest heaves and you blink hard, twice, three times, willing yourself to come back.

His face comes into focus then, still bleary around the edges, and his face is so crestfallen that you reach for him instinctively, touching his jaw. Overwhelmed with the urge to smooth the worry from his features. He should never be afraid.

“Min dronning,” he breathes, relieved, as your eyes finally focus on his. He shifts minutely against you, adjusting his weight, and a gasp falls from your lips at the feeling.

He’s holding his weight off of you with a hand by your head and his other hand comes up to cup at your jaw, securing at your chin with firm fingers, locking your eyes onto his. “Breathe,” he instructs, voice nearly trembling, and you do, forcing your lungs to contract and expel in time with the rise and fall of his chest.

It takes a few moments of this measured breathing in time with his but your head starts to clear, the room coming back into sharp focus. He is still buried inside of you but it becomes bearable as you settle, your body adjusting with every exhale.

Sweat has dampened the hair at his temple and his expression is shuttered as he looks down at you, a quiet worry still creasing at his forehead. Your mind flashes back to the conversation with him on the balcony, how he had looked at your face with muted sadness and said _I’m sorry this is where your life led you_.

And you’re overwhelmed with the need to hold him. To kiss his cheeks and forehead and chin and praise him. Worship him. To tell him that he has blessed you beyond measure, that you cannot repay the fates for bringing you to him. That every moment, every decision, every step of your life has led you straight to him and that you’d do it again and again and again. You want to tell him all of this.

Instead, you take your bottom lip in your teeth and flex your core, just a little hot squeeze around his cock. The worry falls from his features as his head sags on a groan, hips stuttering a little, on instinct.

 _Yes_ , you think, scratching your nails in his beard. _Yes, that’s it_.

He shifts his weight then, the hand that’s not holding his weight falling to your hip and gripping it as he roots deep, just a small snug of his hips. A groan is knocked from your lips and you gasp, nodding when his eyes go to yours. 

“Yes,” you say breathlessly, his jaw a solid weight in your palm. “Yes, my king.”

He presses a firm kiss to your palm, keeping his mouth there as he retreats and pushes back.

He does that a few times, soft rolls of his hips, just inching back and forth. Testing. Feeling.

The gentle rock of his hips is your first taste of him inside of you, of the slide and the fill as his cock knocks against the deepest part of you. It sparks something deep in you, in the dormant recesses of your brain. Something animal. Something feral. Something that grips your belly with a desperate heat, a sudden need. 

You clutch at him, hand gripping the back of his bicep where he’s holding his weight, your sex bearing down on him helplessly. You’re soaking, you realize, leaking around him where he’s plugged deep inside of you. Soaking the bedding, slicking up your thighs, dripping all over him.

Your thighs fall to the bed on either side of him, opening you further, wanting, and Thor leans back, his hand lifting from where it had been supporting his weight by your shoulder. His palms settle on the backs of your thighs, warm and calloused and soothing, and he pushes down, bending you nearly in half.

His eyes are heavy with arousal and trained on yours when he lets his hips roll against you. A long, sinuous motion that has your eyes rolling back and a groan falling from your lips. He repeats the motion, pulling out and sliding back in, tip to root, the muscle of his hips bumping hard against your pelvis.

You nod, panting, and that’s all it takes.

Thor ruts his hips into you, twice, hard enough to make your teeth clack together around a moan - and then he lets himself go.

Pressing down on the backs of your knees and rotating your hips up to meet his, he thrusts into you with a brutal snap of his hips. Seeking. Claiming. And again, and again, and again, he ruts against you. 

His eyebrows are drawn, cheeks hot with a flush and he lets out little soft grunts as he keeps his eyes locked on your face, unable to help himself. His hips drive home again and again, shoving into the plush of you, making room, filling you with his cock. 

You choke on air for a moment, overwhelmed, but then force a steady breath out of your parted lips, coming out in soft little _ah_ s at every thrust.

You must stay here, with him. You take measured breaths, inhales sucked in a gasps, exhales pounded out of you with the force of his claim.

He feels indescribable inside of you, cock hard and ember hot, filling you to every limit. Every deep fuck of his hips sparks in your belly, a warmy, syrupy feeling pooling there. Building. Spreading out into your limbs like honey. The pressure of him feels like a delicious scratch of an itch and you realize that you’ll crave this. Need this. And it will be yours.

You realize that the air in the room has grown hot and thick, like it had during the ceremony. Oppressive and sweltering, filled with energy to the point of crackling. Sweat has sprung up on every inch of your skin and you feel a hot flush breaking out on your chest, creeping up between your bouncing breasts. It feels like being in the eye of a storm. 

Thor is grunting loudly now, on each thrust, sweat dripping down his temples. He looks mad with it, nearly gone with lust as he swivels his hips, fucking you deeper and deeper, seeking purchase so far within you.

The sound of skin slapping against skin is sloppy, heavy in the humid air and you moan, unbearably aroused by the wetness of it.

When Thor bears down on you, pressing harder on the backs of your thighs, canting your hips up even more to meet his, you feel a jolt, deep, and you cry out. It’s there, pulsing in your belly, an electric wave starting to build between your legs. 

“Thor,” you beg, voice breaking as it’s forced out of you. “There, Thor, _please."_

It feels like the ocean deep inside of you, sparking, swirling. Building up and up and up. You start to rut your hips against his, desperate for the feeling. Greedy for what is coming.

He gathers the backs of your knees over his forearms and reaches down to kiss you, hips keeping their punishing rhythm. His mouth opens over yours, hot and sticky, tongue slicking against yours and the angle shifts with his weight and suddenly, like a crack of lightning, the buzzing wave in your sex crests and breaks, and you’re falling.

You scream, voice breaking as your back arches stiffly off the bed. It feels like electricity, hot and unbearable, locking up your every muscle as it crashes over you. You can’t see, can’t think. Can only feel the waves of heat and pleasure rolling through your core and pooling in every finger and toe.

Thor stills, panting, pinning you down against the bed as you writhe of his cock, your sex pulsing wildly against the strength of him. He holds you there, strong as steel as you gasp, coming out on the other side, eyes desperately seeking his. When your eyes lock, you moan, loud and wanton, breathless at the sight of him. 

Thor’s eyes are predatory, gleaming in heat and arousal, and he’s watching you with parted lips, beard still shining from where he tasted you. His eyes are the color of the very center of a flame.

Your body starts to jerk then, muscles spasming as your orgasms wrings you dry. Your hips stutter into his on their own accord, lost to the feeling, and Thor grinds down into you, breathless. Hard and leaking inside of you. Twitching, ready to spill his seed in you. 

You gasp at the thought, sudden and unbidden, of him coming inside of you. Fucking you deep with his seed, rooting it there in your very core. It occurs to you, stupidly for the first time, that Thor will impregnate you. That he wants to. That he will. That he’ll spill in you again and again and again until his seed anchors and blooms. Until your belly is swollen with his child.

The thought takes your breath away and your hand flies to your belly, rubbing the skin there, imagining. Thor’s eyes drop there and his hand comes to cover yours, pressing down, and he groans and you know that he understands.

“Thor,” you say, voice a hoarse whisper. 

“ _Min dronning_ ,” he replies, voice thick and desperate and then he’s fitting his hands around your hips and flipping you. Pushing you onto your belly, face shoving against sweat soaked bedding, gripping your hips from behind and pulling them back to up him.

Your world spins, limp and syrupy in your pleasured glow, and you moan helplessly as Thor fits your hips back to his and enters you with a rough snap of his hips. 

His pace is punishing, fingers bruising where he draws your hips back to meet him at every thrust. Gone is the full bodied roll of his hips when he first entered you - now, he ruts, hips  hardly withdrawing before fucking into you again and again in a sloppy, staccato rhythm. Pounding you deep, deep, deep.

You’re panting into the damp bedding, arms felled uselessly around your head as he uses your body, floating on the feeling. Delirious with it. Tears well in your eyes and roll down your cheeks and you moan your husband’s name, relishing the taste of it on your tongue.

Thor is saying things you cannot hear, gritting out hard words under his breath, and then he’s snapping his hips hard, once, then twice, and then he groans like a roar as he finds his release.

He shoves into you still, hard and unrestrained, your face and upper body mashing into the soft surface of the bed, desperate to get deeper as his cock jumps and spits inside of you, spurting hot cum that feels like fire.

He holds you there for a moment, the sound of his hard breathing a rasp in the thick air, hands still clamped around the hinges of your hips. His hips stutter thoughtlessly even as he softens inside of you, unable to stop himself. He moans under his breath, sounding exhausted. Awed.

You sit there, both, suspended in time for a moment. The thick of the air in the room starts to break, dispersing like windswept clouds over a prairie.

You’re gasping as well, breathing heavily into the sweaty sheets below your face, and when you gather the strength to start to raise up onto your elbows, Thor snaps out of his reverie.

“ _Min dronning_ ,” he murmurs, pulling out of you fast enough that you hiss, rolling you gently onto your back. Crawling up your body and touching at your face. His expression is repentant, his forehead crinkled up again in worry.

You immediately reach out to smooth the skin there and then you’re overcome, laughing sobs erupting from your chest from nowhere.

“My love,” Thor says, voice breaking, cradling your face, rubbing his cheek against yours. “My love, my love, my love.”

Tears are pouring down your cheeks and you can’t stop laughing, coming deep from your belly, and you pull his face to yours, kissing him deeply. When you pull back, his eyes swirl with concern, confusion. He touches at the red on your cheek from where he shoved you into the bed. 

Your hand covers his on your face and you smile at him, deliriously happy. Stupid with it. He smiles back, a little unsure, kissing the irritated skin of your cheek.

“Are you well, my love?” he asks, bringing your hand up to kiss your knuckles, so tender it makes your heart break. The endearment seems to have stuck and you don’t mind it one bit.

Your hand turns in his and you take his wrist, moving his hand down your body, sneaking it between your legs where you find your sex pulsing, again. You realize belated, with another laugh, that he made you come _again_ , without you even realizing it. You press his palm into it, letting him feel the fluttering muscle, and he growls softly like he can’t help it, fingers curling instinctively against your sex, thumbing at the sensitive nub at the crest. 

“ _A-ahh_ ” you cry softly, pressing his hand closer, to just hold him there. 

Your other hand comes up to cup his face, heart beating out of your chest with affection. “I am more than well,” you say breathlessly, stupid smile still on your face.

You watch each other for a moment or two, catching your breaths. He’s smiling now too, eyes crinkling around the edges, worry abated. His body dwarfs yours as it curls around you and you revel in the feeling. At the power and mass of him. Your husband. Your king. 

His hand moves to your belly. When he spreads his fingers, they span your entire waist. He rubs the skin there gently, the movement bursting with affection, and he kisses your jaw, your cheek. Rubs his nose against yours and shares your breath.

A loud grumble echoes from your stomach making you both jump and you throw your head back in a laugh. Thor is laughing too and wiping the tears that have stopped falling from your cheeks with his thumb.

“Are you hungry, my queen?” he asks. 

You think for a moment and nod, patting your stomach, remembering. “I barely ate dinner.”

“I remember,” he says, thumbs still stroking your the flushed skin of your cheek.

You look down at yourself and huff a little. You are covered in sweat and slick and spend and hardly have the strength to move.

“I don’t think I have the strength,” you tease, smiling softly. Touching at the smooth, strong skin of his chest. “Maybe I’ll just stay here with you and starve. It would be a happy death.”

Thor growls playfully in return, pressing a kiss to your temple. He sits up on the bed, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Nonsense,” he says, lips quirking up easily. “I’ll take you to the baths and have food waiting for us on our return. 

Your stomach rumbles again, loud, and you nod agreeably.  “Okay.”

Thor rises from the bed and crosses the room, pulling back a curtain and rifling through an assortment of dry, clean robes. Even now, you catch yourself staring at him as you scoot yourself over to the edge of the bed, throwing your legs over the side to rest on the floor. You feel his seed inside you shift, react to gravity, and you blush at the feeling. Your touch between your legs at the hot skin there, feeling where it has started to leak out of you.

Thor returns to the bed dressed in a dark blue garment and holds out a robe to you, wine-red and made of soft woven fibers. “It’s mine,” he says, sounding fairly pleased about that, voice a little heavy. “It won’t fit but it will do until your clothes are delivered here.”

You pull the robe over your shoulders, still seated on the bed. You’re not sure your legs will work when you stand so you pull the robe around your shoulders and cinch it around your waist.

The fabric is warm and soft and dry against your skin and you notice the faint musk that you’ve come to know as simply _Thor_. You rub your nose against the fabric of your shoulder to draw in more of the scent, and stand.

Your knees knock like a newborn fawn, trembling and useless, but Thor is there in an instant, scooping you into his arms with no effort at all. You wrap your arms around his neck out of instinct, pulling your face close to his. He’s smirking a little, the quietest, pleased expression on his face.

“Yes,” you accuse playfully, cupping his jaw in your palms. “This is your doing, you brute.”

You’re grinning but his face is suddenly hard to read, just inches from yours. He’s looking at you with what feels like wonder and the smile fades from your face as you drink that expression in, return it in kind.

“I can’t believe I found you,” he says at last, voice a deep, husky rumble. Just for you. He presses his forehead against yours and you can’t help yourself, pulled by gravity itself as you lean into his space and press your lips to his. 

You stay there together for a few minutes, trading soft, earnest kisses back and forth. Both trying to say so much to the other with the presses of your lips, Thor supporting your weight in the middle of the quiet room like it’s nothing at all. 

When you finally pull back, face a little flushed, Thor rubs his nose against your cheek, overflowing with quiet affection. “Now,” he says, eyes finally opening, blue like a midday sky. He smiles. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You nod as he moves to the side entrance of his chambers, loving the flex and feel of his shoulder muscles under where your arms are clasped around his neck. You can’t believe this is real. You can’t believe he’s yours. You press your nose to his beard, overwhelmed, as Thor breaches the doorway and heads to the baths. 

“Do you think we could get some of the pastries from dinner?” you ask, mumbling. Suddenly and completely exhausted in his arms.

“For my queen?” Thor says, as he carries you effortlessly through empty halls. He presses another kiss to your lips. “Anything.”


End file.
